


day eleven

by TimeTurnedFragile



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Sobriety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeTurnedFragile/pseuds/TimeTurnedFragile
Summary: Freddie looks up at Brian, backlit in gold like an angel, the silhouette effect making his hazel eyes dark as he holds Freddie's gaze. Freddie clenches his shaking hands between his knees and thinks that if he could just get his shit together--just one drink and he'd be better--he could try to draw that.





	day eleven

**Author's Note:**

> obviously freddie wasn't an addict, but i wanted to write some maycury hurt/comfort, and for ~reasons, this is what came out. in my world frian is always at least a little in love, but honestly there is nothing in here that would prevent you from reading this as friendship if that's your preference. would love to hear what you think!

Freddie wakes up to an awful taste in his mouth and someone else in his bed.

 

He's wearing pajamas, too warm and sweat-damp, leaving him feeling smothered. He's got his own pillow, but he's not in his bunk, so he must be in a hotel. He doesn't remember where and he's not sure he ever knew. His head pounds and his mouth tastes like the floor of their old van.

 

It's no surprise that there's someone else in the bed. Freddie can't remember the last time he was left alone. Whoever it is, they're holding awfully still, but he can feel the presence of another body behind him. When he turns his head a little--not enough to be definitively awake--his closed eyelids are dull red. Whoever it is left the lamp turned on.

 

Freddie turns back toward the darkness on his own side of the bed, curling in tighter on himself. There aren't that many people it could be, lying in bed with him, and he doesn't think he's ready to face any of them yet.

 

He reaches for memories and can't come up with anything coherent. He yelled a lot at some point, which seems like a long time ago but probably wasn't. He remembers John’s stubborn, expressionless stare... Mary’s face crumpling when Freddie hit just the wrong (right) nerve... Roger rolling his eyes and scowling. He thinks he might have hit Roger. He thinks he might have been crying.

 

"Freddie?"

 

The voice doesn't belong to John, or Mary, or Roger, though, and Freddie moves before he can think, thrashing over to his other side.

 

"Brian?" 

 

His voice comes out small and rusty, the name barely recognizable even in his own ears, but it is Brian, sitting on top of what covers are left on the other side of the bed. He has some thick book in his lap, and he looks steady in a way Freddie _resents_.

 

Freddie wonders how they decided on Brian being the one here when he woke. Maybe just by the virtue of having been out of the room during yesterday's blowout. "What'd I do?"

 

Brian smiles a little at that, and Freddie abruptly feels any resentment fade as he remembers why he adores Brian so much. 

 

"You acted like a guy ten days into kicking two addictions at once, and then you fell asleep for an entire day."

 

Freddie licks his lips, which doesn’t help the taste in his mouth, and squints past Brian at the alarm clock, trying to make sense of the glowing numbers. They're blue, which is the wrong color--he tries to remember if they changed hotels, if they drove somewhere, if he did something to the last alarm clock. He cringes at the thought of being  _that_  rock star, trashing hotel rooms, but when he looks back at Brian he's there, waiting patiently. 

 

"Does that mean now I'm eleven days in?"

 

"That's it, keep looking on the bright side."

 

Freddie nods against his pillow, but it's not much of a bright side. Eleven days into  _what_ , exactly? Into the rest of his life without any of the things that make life bearable (make this life  _possible_ ), a chemical investment at the beginning of the night that pays off for hours, on stage and after. It's not even like he'd have to kill himself to end this death march. Rock bottom isn't the only other option. He won't do the harder stuff anymore—that was stupid. He gets that. 

 

But he could have just one drink for courage, just enough so he can deal with John and Mary and Roger and whatever Brian doesn't want to tell him he said--Jesus, they're supposed to be on  _tour_ , and he's fucking things up for everyone, blowing all this time trying to be something he doesn't even want to be--

 

He doesn't notice he's closed his eyes until Brian says "Freddie?" again really softly, like he doesn't want to wake him. 

 

Freddie looks up at Brian, backlit in gold like an angel, the silhouette effect making his hazel eyes dark as he holds Freddie's gaze. Freddie clenches his shaking hands between his knees and thinks that if he could just get his shit together--just  _one drink_  and he'd be better--he could try to draw that. It's the kind of image begging to be put on paper.

 

"Do you want something to drink?"

 

Freddie's mouth falls open, and he tries to say yes and just starts laughing, pushing up on one elbow and nodding and laughing. It sounds deranged--it's a stage laugh, a character laugh, a laugh meant for a mic and a crowd of thousands, and it's just ripping itself out of him with no one to hear but Brian. Brian raises his eyebrows and smiles a little. 

 

Freddie's stomach hurts and he can hardly breathe, and his hair is plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck is clammy. He pushes himself half-upright, trying to choke back the crazed giggles, and Brian just keeps watching him, calmly, like this is a perfectly normal reaction. Later, Freddie thinks with a clarity, later he'll ask Brian what he did just now and Brian will say he acted like a guy eleven days in. He wipes his mouth against the arm of his pajamas and tries to catch his breath. 

 

"Yes. Please." His mother would be so proud.

 

Brian's smile widens. "We've got water in bottles  _and_  water on tap. What'll it be?"

 

Freddie lets out another hoarse little burst of laughter, but it sounds and feels more like an actual laugh this time. Brian's always been good at inspiring those. He feels light-headed and dizzy, but it's better than feeling crazed. He'll take it. 

 

"Bottle."

 

"You got it," Brian says, and reaches over to pick one up from the nightstand. He opens it for Freddie with a bartender's flourish.

 

Freddie forces himself not to gulp--the first sip just tastes like his mouth, and he wants to spit, but there's nowhere to do that except into the bottle or all over himself or Brian, none of which seem like good ideas. He swishes and swallows instead, and tries again.

 

Brian is still watching him. Freddie's attention is caught when Brian finally looks away.

 

"Do you, um, want me to call someone else?"  _This_  question, Brian asks carefully, and Freddie gulps water and wishes it was anything that could make him not know what that might mean. 

 

"Everybody told me to wake them up if you asked for them. I think Roger wanted me to wake him if you talked in your sleep."

 

Freddie's stomach turns uneasily at the disjointed memory of his nightmares. He feels for an awful second like he's been on stage without realizing it. 

 

"Did I?"

 

Brian shrugs. "I was reading."

 

Brian's his bandmate. Brian's his _best friend_. Being on stage in front of Brian is just... sound check. Freddie breathes again.

 

He looks past him again, and this time the clock tells him something: it's a little after three in the morning, too early to be awake though he's already feeling like it's too late to get to sleep. It's definitely the wrong time to bug any of the others, not after yesterday, no matter what they told Brian, though he feels bad about keeping Brian awake and on watch.

 

Freddie scoots up and curls against the pillow, half upright and clutching his bottle of water. Brian's still watching him, and normally the silent scrutiny would be driving Freddie crazy, but in this weird middle-of-the-night bubble, in the midst of every other way he already  _is_  crazy, he feels like it might be driving him sane.

 

He kind of wants to write that down, but he knows that in the morning--or whenever he finds it again and tries to make something of it--it'll just be an incoherent scribble divorced from this moment and Brian's warm, dependable presence.

 

Brian says, "Can I ask you a stupid question?"

 

Freddie nods. 

 

"How do you feel?"

 

Freddie looks away--the question brings his nightmares creeping up again, and the need that's too big to express with any variation on  _I really fucking need a drink, darling_.

 

"I feel like I know exactly how to make this stop," Freddie says, addressing Brian's outstretched feet. They're bare and something about the intimacy of that makes his chest ache. Right this second, what he feels is weirdly detached, if not quite comfortably numb. "I feel like I'm missing something," and he shakes his head, because that's it, but that doesn't cover it. 

 

"I just--I feel like part of  _me_  is missing, or I just--I can't get my balance, I can't figure out how to get  _through_  this, I just want it to be over but it's been eleven days and it just keeps  _going_." 

 

Freddie cuts himself off before he can sound more incoherent and suicidal than he thinks he already has--and he's over  _that_ , at least. He's not dying to get out of this, he just doesn't want to be doing this recovering thing forever. When he looks up, though, Brian isn't backing away. 

 

He looks kind of enlightened, like Freddie said something that meant something to him, and if he did, Freddie hopes Brian will share. Brian sets the book aside on the night stand, and Freddie stares at the stretch of his back, the familiar way Brian moves, the light on his hair and skin and faded t-shirt. 

 

He turns back to Freddie and looks him in the eye again. "Okay if I touch you?"

 

It's not the follow-up Freddie expected--his mouth goes dry and his heart lurches--but he nods and tightens his grip on the bottle of water. Brian doesn't really move in, though, just reaches out one hand and bumps Freddie's chin up. His hand moves on past, curling around Freddie's throat, warm on his skin, and then all Freddie feels is a firm, steady pressure up under his jaw, pressing against his pulse. It's racing.

 

"Feel that?" 

 

Freddie nods against Brian's fingers, and Brian's fingers don't move away. 

 

"That's your beat, right there," Brian says. "Hold on to that. You know Roger says you singers always get lost without somebody to give you the beat."

 

Freddie's hands clench on the bottle of water, but he holds it out to Brian's free hand, and Brian takes it from him gently and reaches back to put it on the nightstand. His fingers don't leave Freddie's throat. When his other hand comes back, Freddie reaches for it, pressing his fingers clumsily to the underside of his wrist. Brian's pulse is steady, far slower than his own. 

 

Freddie holds on, leaning closer, until Brian tugs his arm back, taking Freddie's gripping hand with it. Brian shifts his hand to curl around the back of Freddie's neck and pulls. Freddie tumbles into him, practically in Brian's lap, and Brian gathers him in and holds onto him, though Freddie knows he's sweaty and disgusting and probably smells like week-old tour laundry. Brian's heart is steady under Freddie's ear, a rhythm that can carry him forward as long as he can hear it. 

 

"Sometimes I think you might be the one safe thing on this whole fucking planet, darling,” Freddie murmurs.

 

"I love you, Fred," Brian says, pressing a soft kiss into his forehead, his arms tightening around him. 

 

Freddie just closes his eyes and smiles and holds on to the beat.


End file.
